


Fireworks

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 12 days of Ficmas 2014, F/M, discussion of rape but no actual rape or noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3076235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A newly captured Charlie refuses to celebrate the New Year with General Monroe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a standalone ficlet, but also works as a prologue to my E-rated fic, [Drop by drop upon the Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2855699). (Adults only please).

*

She hears them first, the fireworks. Disappointment was never so very beautiful. 

Charlie had immediately thought of Nora, slinking her way towards them with her backpack full of gunpowder and fuses, or Miles, capable of following instructions, as he so often tells them. Even Aaron, who'd caught on pretty quick after third or fourth escape.

But then the night fills with light, and she can't hold in the delighted gasp as the staccato booms flow into a kaleidoscope of sound and colour, hurtling towards a finale like nothing she's ever seen. She climbs onto the window seat and pushes her nose up against the window in awe. Of course, that's when Monroe tracks her down.

“Happy New Year,” he says from behind her, and she clamps her jaw shut. Refuses to engage in the niceties. Stops breathing. Belatedly remembers to climb down off the seat, only to find he's already stepped in close.

“Spectacular, aren't they?”

“Seen better,” she says shortly, her latest feat in a line of denials so ridiculous she's sure he's laughing. He'd commanded she join him for dinner, but she'd refused, just like she'd ignored the clothes he'd had sent up, the pile of books he'd left on her bedside table, and the steaming, sweet-scented bath she'd found waiting for her yesterday. 

But until she finds out what happened to Miles - “go, kid. Keep the stupid to a minimum. Don't annoy Bass,” he'd shouted as they dragged him away, General Monroe already pulling her up onto his horse – she has no reason to say a single nice word. Wouldn't even breathe in his presence. And here she is, nose pushed against the glass like a five-year-old, oohing and aahing at the pretty lights. Nothing in Monroe's city should bring her pleasure.

“Of course,” he smiles, eyes chilly with scorn. “What were you doing this time last year, Charlotte? When you could have been dancing at the Presidential Ball?”

“Celebrating with my father, who you killed, and my brother, who you stole. And I don't dance.” 

“A Matheson who doesn't dance. What a shock,” he snipes, but there's something in the twist of his lips that suggests real amusement.

“It was Miles' idea, you know.”

“The dancing?”

Her shocked disbelief makes him laugh, and the immediate clench in her gut sends alarm racing through her entire body. Something is wrong here. Very wrong.

“No. The fireworks. I was worried about wasting the gunpowder, but he said morale was more important. So every year since, we've brought in the New Year like this.”

And she has nothing to say to that. “This is my city,” Miles had hissed, and had it meant more than knowing where the escape routes were? Maybe he was trying to warn her that he when he got here, he might never want to leave?

Because where was Miles anyway? Surely he should be storming the gates about now, what with the drunk guards and the loud noise that would mask any gunfire. Are the fireworks not the perfect distraction?

“Miles isn't coming, Charlotte. He knows I'll be with you,” Monroe offers.

She frowns – is she that freaking transparent? - then flashes him her most fake smile. “Why? Because you make a habit of forcing yourself onto pretty girls at midnight?”

He glowers at that, and good. His smile sets her on edge. It's like admiring the beauty of a rattlesnake just before it strikes.

And then he smiles anyway.

“Assuming much? You're not pretty, Charlotte. And if I was of a mind to force you, why would I stop at kisses?” He glances over to the huge desk then turns back to her with a thousand dark promises burning in those freakishly blue eyes. “There's a perfectly good desk right there, after all.”

She slams her eyes shut and prays it looks like revulsion. Instead, she's being assaulted by the image of herself bent over the desk, breasts squashed against the wood, ankles trapped by her not-quite-discarded jeans. Monroe is … she can't even finish the thought, absolutely horrified by how not horrified she is. What is _wrong_ with her?

He didn't even think she was pretty.

Charlie slaps her vanity and gropes for a way to respond. He's a tyrant. Torturer. Mad, trigger-happy dictator. Rape shouldn't be such a stretch. But … he's been almost solicitous in her time here. And he is right – she's the one who brought up kissing.

So maybe she needs to change the subject. 

“How could Miles possibly know what a madman plans to do?” she sneers.

He raises a knowing eyebrow, but answers anyway.

“We were best friends for 30 years, Charlotte. You don't stop knowing someone just because you decide to betray them one day.”

And ouch to that. She hasn't heard the full story from Miles, hadn't realised they'd actually been friends long before they'd decided to create a country together. And now she wishes she hadn't heard the pain in his voice. She refuses to feel sorry for this monster.

He ignores her snort and continues as if uninterrupted.

“He knows all of my tricks, Charlotte, and I know all of his. We learnt most of them together. He knows I wouldn't trust the guards with prisoner so very important. Not to mention a girl who looks like you do.”

“Thought I wasn't pretty,” she snaps, then bites her tongue. Too late.

He leans in close and she finally realises he has her trapped in the alcove, with nowhere to go but backwards into the window.

“Oh, you're not. Too sunburned, too fierce for pretty. But that doesn't stop every man alive from wanting to fuck you,” he says, matter of fact. Then his tone changes into something infinitely more heated. “You'd eat them alive, and that's the biggest turn on there is.”

Charlie takes a deep breath and concentrates on keeping her face perfectly still. Because when she glances down, he's hard. That's not even the worst of it. He's not entirely wrong, she admits with growing horror.

Danger is a aphrodisiac, everyone knows that. But it's not the biggest turn-on there is.

That's the look in crystal blue eyes when a man has declared you completely, thoroughly off-limits, but doesn't bother to hide the fact he wants you anyway.

_fin_

Disclaimer: This is a transformative work (fan fiction) as protected under the fair use provisions of international copyright law. I am not profiting from this work, nor do I make any claims to, or intend any infringement on, the intellectual properties held by the rights owner.


End file.
